


Fear Not The Flame

by mogryomogryo (an_idler)



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Epilogue, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_idler/pseuds/mogryomogryo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beatrix struggles with the social and moral repercussions of her participation in the near-end of the world. She finds comfort in small things and dark places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear Not The Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in like two years, put your bib on baby it's gonna be messy

“My truest friend.” She says, eye struggling to focus in the mahogany darkness of the room. With some effort, she can identify the shape of the crystalline rose on her nightstand. “I’ve come to you year after year, tear after tear, pleading for advice. You’ve never failed. May that trend continue, now more than ever.“

Beatrix turns to shut the door to her bedroom. Oaken, faded from red to rose in her decade of dedication. One decade to the day, as of yesterday, a fact she kept withdrawn due to more important events taking place on that same day. After last year’s annual play was cancelled by the Calamity, Alexandria celebrated the return to peace just in time for the Queen’s 17th birthday with another rendition of I Want To Be Your Canary, allowing the classic to finally be finished after the crude interruption of a certain kidnapping a year prior.

Coincidentally, this year’s plans were thrown off not by a kidnapping, but by the exact opposite, starring the perpetrator of the prior crime:: Sir Tribal, appearing after nearly a year of absence.

“Not much use pointing out each and every clump of soil when the focus of so many is, rightfully, on the rose to which the dirt dedicates itself.” Beatrix says quietly, unbuckling her belt and slinging it, with her sheathed blade, across the dresser. The boots come off next. “I do not mean to complain, of course. Some have worse problems than mine own.”

Adelbert, for instance. Her Knight of Pluto flourished during the year of reconstruction after Zidane’s disappearance, as his presence was key in keeping the queen happy in solitude. His knights, too, were a tremendous aid in the rebuilding of the once-great kingdom. That confidence withered when the young mage Vivi Ornitier-- in his way, Adelbert’s own crystalline rose --was found deceased. 

‘He was too young. I have swords older than him. Weimar has bastard children older than him. Older than he was. Past tense at this point, I suppose.’ She could still hear his every word on that night. The sky does not always cry for last youth, so clear moonlight bathed the barracks in blue as she wiped the lone tear from his eye.

‘An eyelash went astray.’ She’d said, knowing that he’d not want to be seen crying, same as all knights. Knights should never fear love, though, so she rose to her feet and kissed him on the forehead, then softly grasped his hand and pulled him away to her bedroom. She helped him out of his armor and into her bed, and she did not complain when his arms grew heavy on her waist as sleep freed him from his woes.

“What of mine own woes, though?” She removes her gloves last, and gently lifts the rose, stem between her fingers as if a wine glass. “I shall not drink and I shall not weep, as is unfit for the esteemed sword of Alexandria.”

If there is anyone left to consider her with such respect. To most of the citizens, in her own kingdom and those across the land, she continues to be known as a cold general at best, and a heartless killer otherwise. The Queen did her best to clean the slate for everyone, but warm words and honesty can only do so much, especially for someone whose strength was never public relations.

The world would not soon forget that her hand was forced by Queen Brahne and, even more so, by the angel of death that led her to corruption. The world would also not forget the sight of Save The Queen coated with Burmecian blood. And neither would she.

“I’ve heard that every thorn on a rose represents a bad memory. I wonder if he ever knew how barbed his little princess would become.” She could see her reflection in the carefully polished rose, an endless arrangement of melancholy faces. “I know women for whom skin as unblemished as mine is but a fleeting dream. The thorns exist, though, if you know where to look.”

She reaches up to toss aside her hair, and her fingers linger on her eyepatch. A thorn that burst forth on her first day in Alexandria.

She was a ‘weaponmaster’s apprentice’. In truth, a glorified term for a mercenary under the wing of a man who’d smiled at her in the Treno orphanage, as he handed over the gil and paperwork, and then never smiled again. When they set foot in Alexandria for the first time, her owner was introducing her to a few contacts when he received word that a few more of his ‘hatchlings’ had finally arrived in the kingdom. He told her to stay in the nearby tavern until he came back, giving her enough to buy some cider and a meal.

Inside, a petite mage was performing to an almost-empty room. Standing behind a bowl of ice and a bowl of fire, he was making crystal sculptures in every color of the rainbow. He spotted her and invited her over, asking her what her favorite flower is. She told him she loved roses, and so one appeared, perfectly molded, a color precisely between pink and red. She clasped both hands over her mouth and fought back tears as he held the rose out to her, telling her to be very careful with it.

It was then that her owner arrived again. He approached her with a few extra swords in tow and asked what she was doing without food when they had so much training ahead of them. She sat her rose down on the table behind them, hands shaking, as the mage asked him if he’d like sculptures for his other children. Her owner tells him no, thanking him for the offer, but she resists his attempt to lead them away.

“I want to stay and watch him. ” She’d said, looking her owner in the eyes. He returned her gaze for a long moment before grabbing her by the hair and forcing her face into the mage’s bowl of fire. Her screams drowned out the shouts of the mage and the barkeep. Her owner let go of her head as he drew his blade and began shouting back. His loose swords fell to the ground just as she did. Partially blinded and agonized to the brink of consciousness, she reached out and struggled to grab ahold of the nearest blade.

Firmly in her hand, it flew unimpeded, through air and through flesh, until the threat was no more. After that, her memory fails her, leaving the next few days blank until she found herself waking up  
in a small room in a luxurious inn just outside of the castle. On the nightstand was the crystal rose and a note from the performing mage. He’d paid for a week of room and service, and he was going to ensure a message was sent to the Queen regarding a young, talented swordswoman who saved one of the castle’s personal chefs during his off hours as he performed in a local tavern.

Beatrix sighed, long and hard, alone in the tavern room, just as she sighs now, focusing on the nostalgic gemstone flower for one more moment before placing it back in its holder. She rises off the bed and walks briskly back to her freshly shed gear, sliding her belt and gloves back on. One last glance at her treasure, one fleeting moment of uncertainty, and then she steps outside, sliding the oak shut behind her.

“The Queen’s Blade has no time for a mummer’s meditation,” she thinks to herself, rising to her feet. They find their way down the path of nostalgia and shadows, stopping just before the door to the grand Alexandria kitchen. At such a time, few people could possibly still be within. She knocks before letting herself in. To no surprise, but great relief, the only person still bringing movement to the darkened cave of marble and culinary flotsam is exactly who she yearns to speak with.

“I do not wish to be a shade in the night come to ruin your peace. However, deep in the cold nocturne even a rose may turn blue.” She says and spreads her arms, smile splitting her face so brightly even in dusk. The small chef across the room turns and smiles in turn, removing his hat.

“Allow an old apron hermit to warm things up, even if only for the time it takes to share a drink.” the surprised cook says, ash-dusted wrinkles forming by his eyes as he wipes the char off his hands before bringing himself in close for the hug. His head barely reaches her navel, so she kneels down to make things easier.

“How fares your adventure in taming the furnace?” She asks him.

“Why, I could inquire the same of you!” He says, clapping her shoulders, and they both laugh freely as he steps away, towards the grand pantry, to retrieve a tin of powdered chocolate. “Though it may come as a surprise, the oven mitt truly does notice when the chef’s knife dulls.”

“In complete honesty, that is the primary reason I find myself haunting your halls again after so many years.”

The small chef works at the counter, shaking and pouring and mixing.“It is not in my power under the title of Ovenmeister to command you to sit, yet I find in myself the strength and audacity to implore you to grace my lonely stool with your delicate warmth.”

“I may yet find a scrap of benevolence.” She sits, pushing her hair back and closing her eye to better take in the warmth of the oven as it nears the end of its embers. “I feel unlike myself. The old rose you know stood tall and immovable. Now she’s limp and her colors are faded.”

“Mirrors dusty with disuse leave us all looking worse for the wear. Wipe it off regularly, though, and the real you comes through.” He hands her a steaming mug. “You never had the chance to develop consistent polishing habits. Don’t blame yourself, though, dear. Your life’s never been a sunlit day trip.”

“I trust your words, but only with exhausting effort. Not everyone requires such maneuvers to stand straight.”

“Not everyone has hundreds of armed warriors waiting at their heels. Not everyone has a name that sits in the hearts of so many, not always with sympathy.”

“This restlessness has been absent for a long time. I looked death in the eyes last year. I was death in many eyes last year. Yet, every night, I would find myself in my bed, sleeping peacefully and waking unruffled.”

“Has m’lady heard screams in the night coming from the infirmary, recently?”

Beatrix sips her drink, quenching a quivering smile. “None that I can recall.”

“That’s because even blood and sorrow can’t hold sleep at bay forever. For bold warriors, such as yourself, that same stress that makes someone like me shiver and run just gives you that much more momentum. We’re both artisans. I paint a meal with a flame, you sculpt a kingdom with a sword.” He rises and walks over to his oven. Gripping the massive mahogany peel with both hands, he slides it into his furnace and withdraws a majestic loaf of brioche. “I presume m’lady finds herself too affected by her lethargic state to partake in the last bake of the night?”

“Unfortunately. My apologies, sir.”

“It is no problem at all. Let me offer you a serving of something else, then. Not even a moon’s turn ago, I came across a fabulous feast of information. Of course I saved a dish for the great rose, knowing she would find herself in my kitchen again some day.” He finishes carving a heft of bread and places it on a plate before retiring the rest of the loaf to the pantry. “A Miss Eiko Carol arrived in the castle a few nights ago, as you know. She said that she had a dream the night before of Sir Tribal’s return, and she found herself with a great hunger, leading her all the way from Lindblum to this Kitchen, along with the several moogles following her around. I made a brioche that night, too, and we shared stories as we dined.”

“Your skill with a woman’s mind is as keen as the knife in your hand.”

“The blade I hold is meant for bread, so it falters at every task except for the act of slowly, gracelessly sawing. If that’s how you characterize my love life, well, I’d say your eye is keener than any knife in this kitchen.”

“Sir Meister.” Beatrix blinks slowly, smile unbroken. “Please.”

“Apologies, my lady. The mind wanders. As I was saying, she shared some secrets, of which none were particularly grave. A number were quite interesting, however. One of the topics she touched upon several times was her last peaceful visit to Alexandria, a while ago when Sir Tribal had yet to vanish. She was in the library when he caused a ruckus. Along with the salamander, the glutton, and the little magus, he was rifling through book after book, leaving dozens half opened and strown in his search for “that thing” that apparently his brother mentioned hearing about. He was shouting stratagems as he searched, leading Miss Carol to believe that he was looking to pick a fight, but with what she had no clue.”

“Luckily, I have much more perspective than she when it comes to the bowels of this castle, especially when it comes to shadow-stalkers and night-talkers. Time and time again, after all others of similar nocturnal inclination have finally gone to rest, I’ve witnessed a lone black mage walk stiffly across the main entryway in the direction of the library. Shortly afterwards, I hear a rumbling and that familiar crackle of fire, long after the kilns and furnaces and even my mighty oven have been doused. Without fail, he returns and passes by in the opposite direction just moments before the first morning surveillance passes through.”

“Has that same strangeness occurred tonight?”

“No, but we are still a few moments shy of the usual timing.” He holds one finger up and takes a bite of his bread. Chewing slowly, finger still in the air, a few moments pass before he turns quickly and points towards the entrance of the kitchen, lowering his voice to a half-whisper. “Ah! See that?”

Through the kitchen doorway, a faint shadow stretches across the grand foyer. After a few suspenseful moments, utterly silent and still but for their own breathing, a black mage walks past the doorway, lurching with every step.

“We’ll have to continue this chat on a future eve, Meister.” Beatrix rises, brushing her legs off, tossing her hair to the side. 

“You’ve yet to touch your drink!”

“Tip toes topple even under butterflies, much less a week’s worth of chocolate. I dare not wake the great ghost of our library with leaden steps.” She turns to him, smiles, and gives one single wave of her hand. “It’s been a pleasure, though. I’d be lost without your eyes and ears, sir.”

She rounds the corner, and presses her back against the wall. With one hand on the hilt of her sword, she slides across the intricate floor of the grand foyer to the adjacent set of stairs. She descends one step at a time, slowly gaining sight of the empty library, until her cautious gaze falls upon the mage standing next to the furthest shelf. It holds a book, gripping it as if dangling a grotesquerie as far from the body as possible. An ethereal whisper pierces the room from somewhere deep inside the figure.

“Remember the pact….”

It echoes throughout the shelves and into the depths of the castle, and the mage repeats the command several times before abruptly striking a flame into his free hand. He holds the roaring orb up to the book, a hair’s breadth away from the binding, as he slides it back into place. In one jerking motion, he then withdraws the flame and turns his body towards the stairs, beginning his jilted march once again.

As his foot strikes the first step, Beatrix launches herself over the railing, sword reflecting the last torchlight of the night as she lands gracefully at the edge of the carpet just behind the mage. She holds her blade up, prepared to end the encounter as fast as it begins, but it simply walks away, back into the foyer and onwards. She listens til the last echoes of it’s awkward footsteps have faded, then turns to the shelves, sword still in hand. The room is unchanged, but the solitude of her investigation is further highlighted by the lack of even antagonism. She walks to the furthest shelf.

The important book is far from conspicuous, being dark brown bound leather on a rack of the same. She carefully withdraws it and holds it at arm’s length. An ethereal whisper floats from the tome’s pages, barely audible even in the silence. Beatrix crouches and places the book onto the ground, then steps back. With the tip of her sword, she slides the cover of the book back. She catches just a quick glimpse of the first page before the cover slams itself shut again. A small red tendril extends from between two of its centermost pages, then retreats back inward.

Beatrix takes a step back, but before her heel finds solid ground she is pulled forward by a surge of air as the book floats upward. The tendril extends again, much more rapidly, to reveal itself as a single digit on a blood red hand composed of simple, flat rectangles. From the hand stretches a long tendril of the same shape and color. The full shape of the strange arm shifts and shakes for a moment, then whips outwards, grabbing Beatrix by the side of the head. She pulls away, and the two forces are locked in place until the strength of the arm surges and pulls her to the ground. It presses her cheek into the book’s cover and the whispers become decipherable.

“That counts as a challenge.”

Another burst of wind surges from the book, this time pushing her outwards, and the tendril’s grip falters for a moment. Beatrix uses both as leverage to pull away from the book and back to her feet, just as a purple mist slowly oozes from the pages. The hand snaps out again, but she counters with a slash of her sword, a flash quicker than the crimson lightning. The tendril spirals in the air, two streaks of blood gravitating towards each other, and Beatrix uses the delay to dash to the stairs. Glancing back as her boots begin the ascent, she sees a flood of violet framing the book as it flies towards her.

Beatrix reaches out and tugs on the framed cord by the door, sounding Alexandria’s emergency bell. The deep copper throb rumbles throughout the castle, a sound cut short for Beatrix by the great snap of air as the red arm flashes by her and pierces the emergency cord. She continues sprinting as fast as she can manage in full armor with blade drawn, her eye on the grand gate to the castle.

“Whether or not this creature’s grip strangles out the last of my breath--”

Pieces of paper fly by her, forged into blades by the book’s magics. She tugs the emergency bell cord by the gate before it, too, is sliced. The ring’s rumble dulls the sound of her breath and the crack of the whip aiming to take off her head.

“--I will not allow the shrapnel of my curiosity to land any closer to the queen or her company.”

She reaches the outer edge of the walls and quickly turns, slamming down the lever to close the emergency gate. She backs away slowly, keeping an eye on the bars. Just as the iron begins to slide down, the creature rounds the corner, and the gate finds the stone exactly as the book passes beneath. Now that it’s pinned, she rushes forward and slices downwards, cleanly swinging the brunt of her blade between two bars in the illumination of the grand entry torch.

The cover splits and papers spill out, covering up the cracks in the cobblestone caused by the impact. The papers take flight, again like finely sharpened blades, and whirl towards her like a cloud. She catches sight of a blue creature rising from the split binding as she twirls to the side, avoiding most of the projectiles. She grunts and looks down at dozens of minuscule cuts in her jacket and hair-width cracks on her blade.

After the fluttering of the paper storm begins to wane, she hears yelling and rapid footsteps from somewhere beyond her field of vision and concern. Her own feet stomp towards the trapped creature at the gate, desperate to strike again before the blades return. Save The Queen pierces the blue flesh, but no more, and with several great heaves she finds that she can’t remove the sword from the beast.

A cacophony of footsteps and flying swords floods her senses. She removes her hand from the blade and gazes past the bars of the gate at the slowly rising red arm. It lurches as it lurched before when split in twain, repairing itself before her eye. She turns to the left and to the right, growing desperate for a way to make use of the time before the fight takes a blood-stained turn, and her harried sights fall upon the entry torch.

Her steel-covered fist smashes the glass and the shards rain down to the stone like the boots on the stairs behind her, an eternity away in the eyes of the creature under the gate. She grips a handful of the oil-wrapped coal inside, and the blood red hand grips her head. The blaze cauterizes the gashes on her fingers as the beast’s hand draws her to the ground next to it, and the crushing strength fades from the creature’s fingers as the fire engulfs it.

"A rose born of coals fears not the flame." she says, adding her own voice to the shouts around her. A half-dozen hands grab her and lift her, with gentle pressure rather than bestial strength. They raise her off the ground and pull her away from the ashes, but her mind floats there, fading into the same scorched darkness.

\--

The meister slowly, quietly opens the light lumber gate to the infirmary. The bright Alexandrian morning only barely leaks in, so he walks over to the window and pulls the curtains as far as they can go. He walks over to the bed, smiling softly as Beatrix rubs her eye to dampen the shock of the early sun.

“Would m’lady like a drink now?” The small man asks, hefting himself onto the stool by her bed. He slides a tin bottle out of his pocket and sits it on her small table, next to the small pile of ‘feel better soon’ notes. “I can’t say your steamed chocolate made it through the night, as I found myself with an anxious thirst watching a rose tumble into the darkness. I made this soup from scratch, though. Basic get-well soup, with a bit of gysahl pickle to soothe your throat after all that smoke and poison.”

“I appreciate it--” Beatrix leans forward, giving into a coughing fit. “I appreciate it, dearly. I cannot find an appetite in myself as of this moment, but the sunlight alone nourishes me. Please do leave it here, though. The past has taught me that a morning fast in sickness or pain can shift to ravenous faster than any mist beast.”

“Certainly. I can’t even say I’ve still got a taste for the gysahl pickle myself. Sir Steiner has single-handedly created an incredible demand here in Alexandria, and I’ve been there to witness every arriving batch with my own eyes, ears, and, above all else, nose.”

“He’s told me the story of his first taste of the delicacy. I still don’t quite know how much of it I believe. He received quite a bit of physical aggression during his adventures in the Calamity, and certainly a lot of it was aimed at his head.”  
“Well, my lady, if a few bumps on the head can create an undying passion for such malodorous dishes, I just might try to convince the queen to allow us ‘Meisters to wear steel helmets so we might never tempt fate.”

“If that is the Meisters’ hope, I could bring it up to the queen personally.”

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry about us, your bravery. I would eat anything if it meant the quickening of your healing period. Did the doctor give you an estimate of when you might be back on your feet?”

“Supposedly, I will be walking before the Tantalus Troupe leaves in a few days. As for when Save The Queen will be back in my hand, I am unsure. Both of us will take a while to recover from the heat.” Beatrix holds up her lightly wrapped primary hand and gestures to her other, where it sits wrapped in layers upon layers of bandage and ointment.

The chef sits in silence or a long while, then places his small hand on her arm. “If there is anything, anything at all, that a simple Ovenmeister can do to ease your pain, please let me know. I’ve seen you burned before, and you flourished even in the ashes, but it hurts this old soul to see you so.”

Beatrix places her functional hand on his own. “I was asleep when the nurse last came to ask if I needed anything, so my mind blanked. If you would be so kind as to retrieve something for me, I would be indebted to you once again. For a very nostalgic reason, at that.”

\--

The sun reaches the middle of its daily quest just before the Meister returns. He opens the door just as quietly as the first time, and smiles with contentment when he sees that the young lady in bandages is sleeping just as he’d hoped. He steps gently over to her bedside. The notes have formed a large pile, which he stacks and sits to the side. From his pocket, he retrieves a soft velvet cloth, pale gold in color, and places it upon the table.

On the cloth he carefully rests the crystalline rose. He turns the petals to face her and adjusts the placement so that, when her eye opens again, the first sight will be her own reflection, a portrait of a powerful young woman repeating into infinity.


End file.
